The Birth of Venus
by lena1987
Summary: Complete. Severus acquaints himself with an imaginative method to assist with the rebirth of one exhausted Healer. Written for HP Kinkfest 2016 with the prompt by remarkable1: body worship and jewellery. HG/SS. Mature readers only, please.
_A/N: Thank you to Banglabou for being a fabulous beta and to AdelaideArcher for having a look beforehand!_

 _This story has explicit language and scenes of a sexual nature - you have been warned. In case it is removed from the site, you can find it on my livejournal, username lenaa1987._

* * *

 _People say she's crazy, she's got diamonds on the soles of her shoes  
Well, that's one way to lose these walking blues  
Wearing diamonds on the soles of her shoes. Paul Simon._

 **The Birth of Venus**

It begins with her back.

The skin, as smooth as pearl and golden in the candlelight, taunts him. It peeks out from underneath a cream coloured gown of silk; Severus can only catch a quick glimpse of her shoulder blades from across the ostentatiously decorated ballroom. The dress… Severus finishes the rest of his white in one long sip and sets the dainty glass down on the nearest surface. The dress is a halter neck, he finally decides, having recalled dull and dreary conversations overheard in days long past.

Black eyes follow the witch as she moves across the room, meeting and greeting, accepting kisses and offered hands. Hermione Granger has changed and yet not changed; here before him stands a woman grown. She is luscious; curved in a way that beguiles and entrances. Still, though, her breasts are small compared to the almost Rubenesque flare of her hips, and surely she would forgive him for declaring that each single lock of hair is a creature unto itself. Her ankles, peeking from underneath the floor length gown, are finely boned, and the thin straps of her shoes disappear underneath the fabric.

He wonders how high the straps are wound around her legs.

Besides the dress that falls over her body like water, she is otherwise bare. Despite her achievements – he has read about her, oh yes, he most certainly has – there are no subtle jewels to adorn her or carefully selected heirlooms to complement her. Her haphazard curls have been twisted around a nondescript silver comb, but other than this, Miss Granger is a blank canvas. He mourns the loss of gossamer jewels – should she not have such things? Should she not be showered with them?

Not to refine her – no, for to refine her would be such a waste, but perchance to assist her…

 _A rebirth…_

She is not graceful, nor are her gestures fluid. There is a wildness about her, and Severus mulls it over as good fortune gives him another chance to examine that long, smooth expanse of skin.

Who is she with?

He surprises himself by deciding that he does not particularly care.

And yet…

This body… Her body…

Sweet, forbidden fruit.

He lets his hands slide into the pockets of his finely tailored trousers, made to match the Edwardian suit jacket that is currently covering his black silk shirt and deep blue waistcoat. Like _her_ , he has purposefully done away with robes for the evening – there's nothing a Malfoy dislikes more than blatant disregard for the rules.

As she so determinedly works her way through the throng, wiping her palms after each sweaty handshake thrown her way, grimacing when she thinks no one is looking, and jerking away from wandering, indecorous hands, Severus has an idea for this body; her body. Initially, he brushes it aside as easily as, ten years ago, he would have brushed _her_ aside.

Nevertheless…

It begins with her back.

X

He offers her crystals – the first of many. A tame introduction and a tantalising hint, though even to himself, his method of assisting Hermione Granger in her resurgence is unorthodox. Severus is not convinced that his method is not madness, but surely she would flee if _he_ came to her, whispering with a honeyed tongue. No - far better to let the piece speak for him - the piece that felt as if it called to him from the pretentious looking shop window on his afternoon stroll last week.

This desire to please her is unfamiliar, though not, Severus decides with a pensive frown, unwelcome.

The crystals arrive on her Hampstead doorstep in a small grey box. He watches from across the street and draws his wand; one flick rings the doorbell of the ground floor flat.

She opens the door warily. The circles under her eyes are visible even from where he stands in the shadows. Her green Healer robes are ill fitting and he clucks his tongue.

Dexterous fingers investigate the box, trail over the black ribbon, tease the bow. Later, she will see the small 'SS' stamped on the other side of the ribbon, but for now her brow furrows and she looks around her.

In full view, she opens the box.

X

Inside the library at Spinner's End, pale hands wrap around an aching penis. Smooth, rolling strokes turn into hurried and ungainly tugs as lukewarm seed splatters his thighs.

His gasp is hoarse; unrepentant.

He is remembering the way Miss Granger's mouth formed a perfect little 'o' of surprise as she looked upon her gift.

Severus is remembering the beginnings of a goddess.

X

Another ball, another night.

The choker wraps around her neck; that long, swan-like neck. He swallows hard and wipes a hand over his mouth. _Stay. Composed._

She wears a dress of black velvet. It clings to her; it _devours_ her figure.

This is no harried Healer, rushing from one bedside to the next, working hours long past those already designated. Her skin, normally tanned and golden, is still too pale for his liking, but here she is: _emerging._

Again, Severus stands at the opposite end of the ballroom. He watches as she exchanges pleasantries, then escapes to the bar. He has long since done away with expectations; no niceties are expected from _him._

Her spine is straight as she stands, one hand resting on the wooden surface as she awaits the beverage. Pinned up curls tilt to the side as her instincts warn her of his scrutiny. Only once does she look over her shoulder in his direction; her lips are painted and form a smile, a blood red frame for sharp white teeth.

She smiles at him.

He smirks.

And then she turns away and takes her drink. His trousers are uncomfortably tight as the strands of her necklace sway on her bare back; three lines of silver crystals drop down low, low, and lower still. A well placed sticking charm holds up her dress to cover the dip of her spine, but Severus' jewels disappear underneath.

He wonders how low the crystals fall.

X

Severus throws the tumbler into the fireplace. The glass shatters; he finds satisfaction in the sound.

 _Why_ is he doing this?

What is it about _her_?

Should he just –

Is he supposed to –

His gaze returns to the paperback lying open on the floor, and he scoffs. Worship her? Worship _her_?

 _Worship_? Since when has he worshipped? Should _he_ not be worshipped? Does he not _deserve_ —

Not really.

Perhaps he could find worth in this. Perhaps this woman does not need to rethink every decision; perhaps he can teach her surety, confidence. Perhaps this woman does not need to turn into _him._

Worship her?

He could do that…

He could find joy in _her_ joy; draw arousal from _her_ arousal.

He sinks into the chair, stunned. Because that, of course, is what he has been doing all along.

Curious, indeed.

X

Another celebration, another afternoon.

She wears the sapphires in her ears. They match the delicate bracelet that snakes around her wrist. The charmed piece coils and uncoils; slithers and glides. The price of the set amounted to the entire cheque that was the result of patenting an obscure potion that he'd previously let sit in the public domain.

He has laid his claim on her with this bracelet, and he leans forward on the polished wooden bench as he watches her weave around the garden, waving demurely to everyone she sees. She sneaks a glance at him from under her lashes; he fancies that her flush is one of pleasure and not of temperature.

The polished, wealthier women sneer at her and turn away, but his witch… She is ethereal as she lifts her chin and strides on past, curls bouncing, rounded buttocks swaying.

Her confidence is titillating.

It seems his claim has been accepted.

X

Later that night he remembers her, strolling around in the sun, wearing his jewellery.

He is envious of the jewels – they sit snugly on her soft skin, caressing her. But she truly, _truly_ , wears them as if she is the queen to his liveried footman.

He wants nothing more than to submit to her pleasure. To watch her bud and bloom – to know that _he_ coaxed her to this. That it was _Severus_ who called her out to play.

When he strokes his cock into oblivion, Severus pictures her writhing on pale sheets, his mouth suckling her cunt while she _drips_ with the evidence of her desire. Silk sheets soothe her skin. Perfumed oil anoints her breasts.

He imagines sweat beading over her skin like diamonds.

He imagines _hard won perfection._

The next day, he allows this image to burn into his mind as he strolls into the boutique.

X

 _Master Snape,_

These gifts… they're too much. Aren't they?

H Granger

X

 _Miss Granger,_

I have not misinterpreted you, witch.

Tell me that your thighs are not rubbing together as you look upon these diamonds. Tell me that your hands are not searching, delving ever lower, encountering silken,

 _wet_ _flesh._

Tell me these things, and I shall desist. Tell

 _yourself_ _these things, and demand that I desist._

S.S

X

Her silence is telling.

X

The diamonds were an impulse buy, yet he does not regret them. The anklet is _perfect._

Severus lets her see him as he sits in front of a café across the road from the entrance to St. Mungo's. He sips at a rich café mocha with an open book resting on his thighs. She comes into view across the street and he slowly removes his reading glasses.

Her Healer robes are still the same off-the-wall shade of green. Her hair is still contained in a business-like bun.

For all intents and purposes, Hermione Granger is the same woman who caught his eye at the Malfoy ball all of those months ago.

Not for long.

Their eyes lock and she lifts her robes—

His smirk widens into a wolfish grin at the sight of her thin ankle dressed in diamonds. The witch covers her mouth to hide a little gurgle of laughter.

She flounces inside with sashaying hips and tosses her hair. He chuckles darkly to himself; they'll never see her coming.

She has recreated herself.

Male pride sparks.

X

His mouth waters; water cannot quench this thirst.

The young witch is on his arm as they enter the Great Hall, couple and castle decked out for the winter ball.

Having never been one to attend such functions before _her_ , Severus presents his cheek for her possessive kiss as they are announced before the crowd.

Hermione is dressed in black, the flowing, silk dress complemented by edgings of cream lace near her shoulders. For propriety's sake – _'_ _It's a charity ball, Severus; it wouldn't be prudent to drip with jewels, surely?'_ – she has donned only his sapphire earrings and matching bracelet. But Severus has already caught a glimpse of the tell-tale sparkle from her anklet that lies in wait under her dress, hinting that she is prepared to be unwrapped later on.

And underneath all of this…

Severus stays silent as she speaks for him, doing his part for the social niceties so he doesn't have to.

Underneath all of this is a purple thong of lace and silk, with an opening for her cunt and a line of South Sea pearls from clit to slit.

Every time she swivels on her feet while they dance, she gasps and gives tiny little delectable moans. His grin only darkens further; his cock only gets harder.

X

In the ornate guest room on the fourth floor of the castle, she removes the dress and sits on the edge of the bed. He kneels at her feet. The water is warm in the bowl on the floor. He dips his long, pale fingers into the rosewater and swirls, releasing the scent into the air.

When he finally touches her skin for the first time, he groans aloud.

To touch is divine.

To taste—

He pauses in his thoughts and licks a wet line on her calf.

To taste is to _indulge._

He washes her feet and her head falls onto the pillow. Her eyes close, and she sighs.

Higher still his hands move, cleansing and massaging as they go. Calves, thighs… When she tosses her head as he nears chestnut curls, he smooths the water over her belly instead.

Severus discovers small breasts, each fitting within a cupped hand; dusky rose nipples that tighten at his touch; a delicate rosebud mouth that forms a whimper when his tongue laves a demanding areola.

X

All of her body is washed. There is no space of flesh left dry.

Still she tosses her head, silently instructing.

 _More…_

X

With trembling, oiled hands, he caresses her skin. Fingers swirl and curl into the aches of her lower back; into the damp folds of her cunt; around her throbbing bundle of nerves.

At her unspoken demand, he slides the thong back on and pushes the pearls slowly against her clit.

And then—

And _then_ —

She wails and he moans, lost in the sensation that comes with cupping her sex with his lips, his mouth suckling on her clit, the pearls trapped between her skin and his tongue.

To feel such beauty – such _earthly beauty_ …

He licks the pearls, the surface cool and smooth even as they are nestled within the warm, wet cunt of the woman that has dominated his thoughts for months.

This beauty is earthly, true, and tangible.

And _now_ —

Her flesh is quivering, her thighs are trembling; her mouth is open in a silent scream. Beyond the pearls he tastes a tangy sweetness and he cannot stop – he does not _dare_ to even break away for air. Without asking, he slowly pushes two long, pale fingers inside of her; her back arches, her hands search for purchase and grip onto the sheets.

There is barely any desire to thrust his cock inside of her – no, not that, he doesn't even want _that_ —

Only this.

This beauty; this strange combination of earthliness, of the pearls that come from the ocean, from the natural world…

And then her _cunt_!

The beauty contained in it is _divine_ , for it speaks of her, it carries her scent, her _essence._

This woman before him has bloomed, and Severus knows without a doubt that there are still so many feminine secrets to discover at her altar.

He curls his fingers within her, beckoning with them, drawing out her pleasure.

When she comes, the intense shock and pleasure of it hitting him like a thunderclap, like rain pouring down on his bare black head of hair, Severus suddenly knows – he knows what it is to be possessed, to indulge, to be indulged.

To treasure her.

And even as he treasures her, even as he files away the drops of sweat that make him instantly decide to search for a necklace to match her thong – even as he does all of this…

The awareness comes that before her, he was stranded – that he was merely treading in dark water, waiting. And in her finery this woman arrived, burning and exploding into his conscious thoughts, his dreaming mind. He has had a hand in creating this woman, this confident, expressive woman, but as she sits up and cups his cheeks so tenderly, her praise and devotion and _understanding_ shining from those tea coloured eyes, Severus realises that it is not that he has found her – it is that she has found _him._


End file.
